


Just Right

by deathwailart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Banter, F/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission undertaken together, Maria's tunic is irreparably damaged and she has to borrow Altair's.  (And he finds it to be hugely distracting.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Right

Clothes are never something Altaïr has had to think on much in his life. When he was young, all the children in Masyaf dressed alike, roughspun tunics and trousers that were worn and stitched until they were eventually torn into rags in the end and once he aged and as he aged and advanced through the ranks it became something to be worn with pride. Robes to denote his status, to help him blend in with crowds or to disguise his face as needed and yet distinctive enough to mark him as something to be feared, the silhouette and the sound of his blade the last thing so many see. He has come to understand that there is a different relationship between women and clothes although he is very much biased in this understanding given that it springs chiefly from Maria. But he has seen the concubines with their bared bellies and skirts slung low on their hips, the tops cut with no thought for decency, only for enticement. So many women who cover themselves in the hot sun of the holy land, blending in as much as he does, unnoticed and yet still catching the attention of the wrong eyes, guards who laugh and grab and ignore their pleas until he dispatches them.  
  
Maria and clothes is something of a strange subject, a thing he cannot help but notice but never discusses because it is not his place to do so lest they be playing some sort of role. Others have looked at her oddly when she strides around Masyaf or other places in a tunic and trousers and sensible boots but she has always been able to speak her mind and does so when asked. She favours practicality, comfort, garments that allow her a full range of movement and do not impede her at any point. He knows that it is likely to be a sensitive subject for her given the life she was forced into and the way she threw herself into being a soldier and as ever, it will not be his place to question her. If she's happy, he's happy. (And whenever he tells her this she always gives him a shove and berates him – fondly – for being a sentimental fool and if this is to be his latest weapon to combat the Templars.)  
  
"Blast," Maria mutters under her breath and it draws Altaïr from his thoughts, looking over to find her staring at her tunic in dismay. He remembers the close escape they made yesterday when assassinating their target, clattering into the bureau and not caring for a thing beyond checking one another for injuries, handing over the bloodied feather and collapsing into the pile of cushions for food and drink.  
  
"Maria?" He asks quietly. It is still mostly dark, not even a hint of pink and orange in the sky or light coming through the slatted bureau cover. Too early for birds to be singing or for men to be heading off to set up their stalls.  
  
"My tunic, I hadn't quite realised what a state it was in."  
  
"There were no wounds upon you."  
  
"No, my armour shielded me from it but I highly doubt I can wear this," she turns to face him, lifting up a tunic that sure enough has a rip through the fabric extending diagonally from one shoulder to the small of her back, telling of a lucky escape – the move she made was to disarm a guard who had rendered him dazed, "for the journey back to Masyaf."  
  
He inspects the garment and nods in agreement, looking over to the pile of chainmail. "What about that?"  
  
"From what I can tell in the dark, it should be easily mended, no true damage and still perfectly serviceable yet we both know that I will draw too much attention if I wore just that alone. And if we are to leave with the minimum of fuss then we were advised to wake before first light to do so."  
  
"Ever the soldier," he teases warmly, watching her move around to arrange what few belongings they have with them – they travel light, backpacks stowed in the bureau from arrival to leaving and many times he has had another return with his pack when he has been forced to leave immediately from cities.  
  
"It was something of a necessity, to rise early." She says the words lightly but he's tired and distracted, wishing he had time to sketch her as he has not had nearly enough opportunities of late. "I had certain things to hide then Altaïr." Her tone is dry and amused and he lets out a quiet laugh, at last getting to his feet in one languid motion, stretching his arms above his head, rising on his tiptoes to work out the kinks from going to bed with sore muscles. Hopefully their ride back will be an uneventful one they can take at their own pace.  
  
"I have spare robes I could lend you."  
  
In truth he usually doesn't carry a spare set on him but too often he keeps packs prepared from the moment he returns to Masyaf out of habit, never knowing how quickly he might have to leave. Often there are spare knives or bracers he's never had need of, perhaps a hood or a sash he's packed not realising they are already lying at the bottom of the pack in the first place. He'd wondered why his pack had felt heavy and Maria had rolled her eyes and said it was a sign of being spoiled that he didn't always run an inventory before he left in the first place, her voice clipped and strident and he'd distracted her from an impending lecture by kissing her senseless in a hidden corner of the souk.  
  
"Well so long as we aren't doing much running and scrambling about on rooftops then that will work."  
  
"So my lack of inventories works to your advantage."  
  
"For once."  
  
"I will remember."  
  
"I'm sure you will. Now, I'm going to need a hand, I'm only proficient in getting you out of these robes." She grins and he can feel his face flush as he pulls the spare robes from his pack and hands them to her as he grabs his trousers and boots, Maria wearing her own trousers too before he joins her and begins to help her into his garments. They're too large across the shoulders for her though Maria is broad there and has similar muscle in her arms from all her work riding and swinging swords, he suspects that his trousers would be too long for her but too tight across her muscled thighs and the thought is not a helpful one, not at this hour and when they couldn't indulge themselves as they often have after the rush of battle. "God, I'd forgotten how many layers there are."  
  
"Usually you are more concerned with ripping them off if you must."  
  
"Is that a complaint?"  
  
"Never." He steals a kiss as he fastens her belt, not that she needs that done but he finds he's enjoying himself, adjusting straps and fittings, Maria pliant in a way she usually is not. So often it's the other way around and he loves it but this is something he'll have to broach in the future, if she's amenable. Judging by the way her breath quickens when he reaches with both hands to draw her hood up, adjusting it to sit just so, the peak casting long shadows across her face, he's sure she'll be receptive to discussing it.  
  
He steps back finally to quickly attend to himself, fingers moving quickly with robes he's been familiar with for most of his life as Maria moves this way and that, testing her weight and how far she can move, fabric flickering in the corner of his vision as he stuffs their belongings, including her mail and ruined tunic, into their packs.  
  
"Well?" She asks finally, a touch of something close to self-conscious in her voice.  "How do I look?"  
  
"I do not have the words," he admits, slinging one pack over his shoulder as he hands her the other. "Would simply saying 'you look right' be too little?"  
  
"I think not, perhaps that is all I needed to hear."  
  
They should leave. The rafiq will wake soon and the guards will likely still have orders to look for them. But as he draws his own hood up he leans in to steal one last kiss, hoping that the sight of her in his robes won't be a horrendous and likely uncomfortable distraction all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: One borrowing the other’s clothes


End file.
